decided to rub yuh out, but he ain’t been in since.”
Slim moved away to a group around a faro game.
“You stick around here, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “I’m goin’ down to see
how Roche is comin’ along.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sleepy was a trifle sarcastic. “Well, just remember the
little birdies, Hashknife.”
Hashknife grinned and elbowed his way through the mob. The doctor’s
house was on the outskirts of the town, tucked away in a clump of
stunted cottonwoods. As he went through the gate and started up the
narrow walk, the door opened and the Countess came out. She was
dressed in black, with the exception of a filmy white scarf.
She recognized Hashknife in the light from a window.
“Good evening, Mr. Hartley,” she said softly.
“Howdy, ma’am.”
“You were going to see the doctor?”
“No-o-o, I reckon I was comin’ to see you.”
“To see me? How flattering! Really, I never expected to have you coming
to see me.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you seem too sensible.”
“I’m much obliged,” laughed Hashknife. “I wish Sleepy could hear yuh say
that. Sleepy thinks I’m the big he-fool of ’em all.”
“No,” she said slowly, “you are not a fool, Mr. Man.”
“But I’m liable to be--most any time, ma’am.”
They moved down closer to the gate in the heavy shadows of the
cottonwoods, where they leaned against the fence. From there they could
hear the Cheyenne orchestra, the music softened by distance. Somewhere
a half-drunk cowboy was trying to sing.
“Why did you wish to see me?” asked the Countess.
“To tell yuh a few things, ma’am. You’ll prob’ly tell me that it ain’t
none of my business. Mebbe it ain’t. The fact is, I can’t mind my own
business. You know what happened tonight, don’tcha?”
“The arrest of Cliff Parker--yes.”
“I work for his dad. He’s a fine old man. Cliff’s got a sister that’s
awful nice and sweet, ma’am. She’s as game as they make ’em. And then
there’s a little lady who came here to marry Cliff. She’s out there at
the Maverick ranch, cryin’ her eyes out.
“She don’t know that Cliff is suspected of being a criminal, but she
does know that Cliff got stuck on a girl here in town, and she thinks
he don’t care for her no more.”
The Countess was silent for a while. Then she put her hand on
Hashknife’s arm.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” she said softly. “Awful sorry.”
“And there’s Milly--the sister. Yuh see, her and Vincent Roche was kinda
engaged, I reckon. She found out that Vincent Roche was kinda takin’ a
lot of interest in some girl in town, too.”
“Vincent Roche.” The Countess spoke softly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Man. I
didn’t know, don’t you see?”
“Yeah, I see. But bein’ sorry don’t help ’em out. I’m not blamin’ you.
Good gosh, it’s all in yore business. But I thought I’d kinda let yuh
know about it, ma’am.”
“Do you blame them--Cliff Parker and Vincent Roche?” There was a hint of
laughter in her voice. Hashknife shifted uneasily.
“Well, I s’pose not,” he faltered. “I dunno just what to say, in a case
like this. They’re human, ma’am.”
“And being human, they fall from grace and into love with a dance-hall
jade.”
“Somethin’ like that, I s’pose. Still, you didn’t keep ’em trailin’ yuh
forever.” Hashknife laughed softly. “You kinda look ’em over, don’tcha?
I was just wonderin’ if yo’re lookin’ for a certain kind of a person,
and discardin’ them that don’t measure up to what yuh want.”
“Perhaps.” She laughed softly. “Who knows? I may have designs on you.”
“No-o-o, I don’t reckon yuh have, ma’am. I ain’t worth investigatin’.
The fact of the matter is, yuh can look right at me and tell what I am.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“Well, that’s good. Yuh saw a homely, long-legged puncher, who don’t
amount to anythin’, and decided to let him alone. I looked at you
and seen a new type of dance-hall girl. But honest Injun, ma’am, yuh
hadn’t ought to waste yore voice in a place like the Cheyenne. Yo’re
young, pretty, and you’ve sure got one dinger of a voice.”
“Do you like to hear me sing, Mr. Man?”
“Somethin’ like that song yuh sung the first day I seen yuh.”
“‘The Sweetest Story Ever Told’?”
“I dunno the name--but it sure was sweet. Well, I reckon I’ve taken
up enough of yore time. If yuh don’t get back to the Cheyenne you’ll
be losin’ yore job.”
“I suppose so.” Her voice was a trifle weary. “Was this all you wanted
to tell me? Just warn me to keep away from Cliff and Vincent?”
“Not warn yuh, ma’am. Lord love yuh, that’s yore business. I just wanted
to tell yuh what it means to others. If you don’t want ’em--I know who
does.”
The Countess laughed and moved through the gate.
“Then you have no interest beyond trying to help your friends?”
“Ain’t that enough interest, ma’am?”
“Yes, I think that is enough. Do you believe that Cliff shot Vincent?”
“I know danged well he didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“Remains to be seen, as the undertaker said.”
A rider was coming toward them from the rear of the south side of town,
a shapeless blot in the dark, traveling slowly. It appeared that he was
coming to the doctor’s home, but swung north and passed them. It was
impossible to distinguish the color of the horse. The blot faded into
the night, with only the soft thud of slow moving hoofs and the creak
of saddle-leather to tell of its passing.
“Some cowpuncher goin’ home,” said Hashknife softly.
“It is wonderful here at night,” said the Countess. “The day brings
out nature at her worst. It is like turning a spotlight onto the face
of a miser. But at night, under the blue of the moonlight, or under
the yellow lamp-light, the roughness is all gone, like an out-of-focus
picture. I hate reality, but love mystery, the moonlight, blurred
figures.
“I have watched them ride into town, a blotch of ink-like, shapeless
things, which blends with more blots at the hitch-racks. Then they come
clumping along on foot toward the lighted windows, which throw long,
grotesque shadows behind them, until they suddenly take the shape of
men under the lights. Then the mystery is gone. They are only human
beings, laughing, talking, swearing in their friendly way. But I would
rather see them in the night, goblin-like hulks, with their spur-chains
rattling, saddles creaking.”
“I like it thataway,” said Hashknife softly. “I like the camp-fire
in the hills, cattle trailin’ along in the moonlight, when the world
is all silver and blue. Why, ma’am, even the bark of a coyote sounds
like a welcome to me.”
“I love it, too, Mr. Man. It seems that we love the same things, doesn’t
it?”
“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “I wouldn’t go quite that far, ma’am. Yuh
see, I ain’t got much use for Blackie Dahl.”
For a moment the Countess was silent, and then she laughed chokingly,
almost hysterically. It was quite a while before she recovered her
composure.
“I think I will go now,” she said, trying to keep the laughter out of
her voice. “I don’t know whether you meant that or not--but it sounded
like it. Good-by, Mr. Man.”
She went swiftly back toward the street, while Hashknife leaned on the
gate and watched her disappear. He grinned to himself, as he rolled a
cigarette.
“Birdies singin’?” he muttered to himself. “No-o-o, I don’t think so.
But she’s danged nice--too nice to be singin’ songs in a honkatonk and
mixin’ with folks like Blackie Dahl.”
He turned away from the gate and started toward the house, but stopped.
Another horse and rider went pounding past, but this one was going in
the opposite direction, and going fast. The cottonwoods obscured his
view now, but as the rider swept past he was sure he caught a glimpse
of something white. It was only a flash. He was unable to distinguish
shapes, but he knew it was a horse and rider. The pounding hoofs died
away in the distance.
“Somebody in a hurry,” he reflected, as he knocked on the doctor’s door.
The doctor answered the knock. He was a little old man with partly bald
head and spectacles. Hashknife had never seen him before, and did not
waste time in introductions.
“I just wanted to find out how Roche is gettin’ along?”
“Well,” the doctor hesitated. “He’s doing better than I expected, but he
is still unconscious.”
“Do yuh think he’ll get well?”
“As long as he’s alive he has a chance.”
“Didja get the bullets out of him?”
“There were no bullets in him.”
“Went plumb through, eh?”
“Yes. Rather a small caliber bullet, I suppose.”
“I see. Well,” Hashknife turned away, “I’m much obliged, doctor.”
“You are welcome.”
Hashknife walked back toward the street, thinking things over. It was
evident that Vincent Roche had been shot with a rifle. The average
small caliber six-shooter, using black powder and an all-lead bullet,
would hardly pass entirely through the body of a man, except in rare
cases. And it would be too much of a coincidence for two of them to
do so in succession.
He went back to the Cheyenne and joined Sleepy, who had been losing a
few dollars on a roulette wheel. The crowd was fairly orderly. Buck
Hardy had sobered enough to hate himself for what he had done, and was
moping around, trying to square himself.
Hashknife stood in the entrance to the dance-hall for half an hour,
but did not manage to see the Countess. Sleepy knew what Hashknife was
looking for, and it amused him greatly.
“The tall feller is lookin’ for the fairy lady,” he told Slim Cole, loud
enough for Hashknife to hear.
Slim laughed.
“They all fall for her, Sleepy. She’s a heart-breaker. The last time
I seen Blackie Dahl he was eatin’ a handful of spikes. I’m tellin’
yuh she’s a hoodoo. There’s Cliff Parker in jail, Vint Roche in the
hospital, and Blackie Dahl filin’ his teeth, like a cannibal gettin’
ready to eat ’em raw.”
But Hashknife merely grinned easily and let them joke at his expense. It
was about an hour later that Hashknife saw Blackie Dahl in the gambling
room. He was playing the roulette wheel, his sombrero tilted low over
his eyes, a set grin on his lips.
And Hashknife grinned as he thought of how the Countess had laughed at
his insinuation that she loved Blackie Dahl. He was not a lovable
character. Several times he lifted his head and squinted at Sleepy who
was watching the play. He had never paid any attention to Sleepy since
the day Sleepy had shot the gun out of his hand; but Sleepy knew that
Blackie had not forgotten the incident.
Someone touched Hashknife on the arm, and he turned to see the sheriff,
who beckoned him to follow. They went outside and walked away from the
doorway.
“I’ve got somethin’ for yuh, Hartley,” said the sheriff, as he handed
something to Hashknife. Hashknife stepped back to the light from the
window and squinted at another trey of spades. It was another of the
expensive brand.
“Where did yuh find this?” queried Hashknife.
The sheriff laughed shortly and put the card in his pocket.
“The man that left that card took the fastest horse in the Thunder
country, Hartley.”
“Yore horse, Jud?”
“Yeah--my black horse. I don’t use him much. Kept him in the stable
with my other bronc and Buck’s roan. He could run a mile while our
other horses were just thinkin’ about startin’. A while ago I went
out to feed ’em. The black was gone, and stickin’ to the feed-box was
this ---- card.”
“When did yuh see the black horse last?”
“This afternoon.”
“Hm-m-m!” Hashknife was thinking of the two riders, who had passed him,
going in opposite directions. The first one had come from toward the
sheriff’s barn, which was located behind the office and jail building.
“Somebody is expectin’ to travel like ----,” said the sheriff sadly.
“That animal was worth a thousand dollars of any man’s money.”
“Mebbe the Trey of Spades is thinkin’ it’s about time to hit the grit,
Jud.”
“Well, he picked somethin’ to hit it with.”
They went back into the saloon and joined Slim at the bar. The sheriff
did not mention the stolen horse. In a few minutes Sufferin’ Stockton
came to Slim and drew him aside. After a short conversation Slim came
back to the bar.
“I was just wonderin’ what became of the Countess,” he said, as he
filled his glass. “She went down to the doctor’s home quite a while
ago. I sent Sufferin’ down there, but she left there early. She ain’t
in the house nor in her room.”
“That’s kinda funny,” remarked the sheriff.
“The doctor told Sufferin’ that a strange man came there shortly after
she went away.”
“That was me,” said Hashknife. “I talked with her. She was just startin’
back.”
“Aw, she’ll show up,” assured the sheriff. “So danged many things happen
these days that we’re lookin’ for trouble.”
As they turned away from the bar, Blackie Dahl walked past them and
went outside. Hashknife sauntered over to the door, and in a minute
or two Blackie rode past the saloon, seemingly in a hurry.
Hashknife found Sleepy in the dance-hall and they sat down at a table.
“I’ve been waitin’ for the Countess to sing a song,” said Sleepy
grinning, “but she ain’t showed up yet.”
“Somebody stole the sheriff’s race horse,” said Hashknife. “They left
the trey of spades.”
“Another one?” Sleepy leaned his elbows on the table and squinted at
Hashknife. “Comin’ kinda fast, ain’t they?”
“Too fast. It looks like a getaway, Sleepy. Farley says that the black
horse can outrun anythin’ in the country. The Countess left the doctor’s
house about fifteen minutes after I left you--and she ain’t never showed
up since.”
“Thasso? This is gettin’ interestin’, Hashknife. Do yuh think she’s
connected in any way with the Trey of Spades?”
“I hate to think so. We were standin’ at the gate down at the doctor’s
house, when somebody rode past, comin’ from the general direction of
the sheriff’s stable. It was too dark to see who it was. They were sure
goin’ careful-like.
“A few minutes later another rider goes past me, travelin’ in the
opposite direction, but this one was just hittin’ the highspots. It
might have been the same rider, but whoever it was, they sure went
away spinnin’ like a spike.”
“Went past you?” queried Sleepy. “Wasn’t the Countess with yuh?”
“Not when the last one went past. She had started for here.”
Farley came into the hall and headed for their table, where he took a
seat.
“They’ve looked all around for that girl,” he said slowly. “None of the
girls have seen her.”
“What do you think about her?” asked Sleepy.
“In what way, Stevens?”
“Think she’s mixed up with the Trey of Spades?”
“Huh!” Farley scowled thoughtfully. “I never thought of her in that way.
I wonder if that horse of mine----?”
Hashknife interrupted him to speak about the two riders he had seen.
“By ----, I’ll bet that’s it!” said Farley emphatically. “She left you
in time to meet him.”
“But it was only one rider, Farley.”
“And if it was her--why do they make their getaway now? We don’t know
who the Trey of Spades is,” said Sleepy. “Their game is just as good
as ever.”
“But, if Roche dies, they’re facin’ a noose,” argued Farley.
Hashknife shook his head.
“I don’t _sabe_ it, Farley. Why did the Trey of Spades try to fasten the
crime onto Cliff Parker? Cliff and Roche rode away from town that night
together. They parted at the fork of the road.”
“And that’s where Roche was found the next mornin’.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed Hashknife. “But did you notice Roche’s
saddle? It was all gummed up with blood, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it sure was.”
“Would a man spill that much blood before he could fall off his horse?
Roche was hit hard enough to knock him plumb out of the saddle. I tell
yuh, he was shot quite a long ways from the fork of the road, and they
packed him back there on his horse. They stole his money and left him
there, with a trey of spades stickin’ in his vest.”
“Well, that don’t mean anything to me, Hartley.”
“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “It only means to me that whoever did
that job knew that Cliff and Roche rode away together that night. And
the Trey of Spades--well, look at it thisaway, Jud: If the Trey of
Spades wanted to throw suspicion of his crimes onto somebody else, he
wouldn’t leave his trade-mark on every job.”
“Then you don’t think that the Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche?”
“One of ’em did.”
“You mean--do you think there’s more than one?”
Hashknife smiled softly and began rolling a cigarette.
“Mebbe you’re right,” mused the sheriff. “I never thought of such a
thing before. How about that jewelry store robbery?”
Hashknife scratched a match and puffed thoughtfully.
“That’s one thing that convinces me that the Trey of Spades did not
shoot Vincent Roche. You found Cliff Parker’s hat out in that back
yard, Jud. It was danged good evidence, wasn’t it?”
The sheriff nodded quickly.
“I could almost get a conviction on that hat.”
“And,” grinned Hashknife, “to keep Cliff Parker from stealin’ his glory,
the Trey of Spades stole the hat from you, Jud.”
“You mean to say that he stole the hat to keep Cliff from bein’
arrested?”
“Just exactly.”
“Mebbe,” Jud wasn’t exactly convinced. “I had the idea that one of you
fellers took the hat. You done yore dangdest to keep what you knew under
cover. You found Cliff there, didn’t yuh?”
“Sure we did,” Hashknife grinned widely. “If we hadn’t he’d be in the
penitentiary right now. My gosh, everythin’ was agin’ him.”
“He ought to thank yuh,” said Jud. “I was sure he pulled that job.”
“He saved the jewelry, Jud. The Trey of Spades bumped into him and
scattered the loot all over. I reckon he bent his gun over Cliff’s
head, thinkin’ Cliff was tryin’ to stop him.”
Farley nodded and got to his feet.
“I’ve got to keep movin’,” he said. “I’m gettin’ as nervous as an old
lady.”
He moved across the dance-hall, dodging the dancers, and Sleepy turned
to Hashknife.
“What about that string of pearls we found in Cliff’s pocket?”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about them, Sleepy. Let’s go across to the store and
get some tobacco.”
They crossed the street and went into a general store. There were a
number of men in there, swapping lies. Hashknife bought some tobacco
and cigarette papers.
“You got any high-power rifle ca’tridges, with solid jackets?” he asked
the clerk.
“Nope. Nobody uses ’em here. I’ve got plenty thirty-thirties, with
soft-noses, and some thirty-forties, same bullet.”
“Do yuh know anybody around here that might have some?”
“Nope, I don’t.”
“What was that?” One of the bystanders, a long-nosed person, wanted to
be of assistance.
“High-power cartridges,” said the clerk. “Them solid pointed ones.”
“Oh! Nope, I dunno anybody what uses ’em. Ol’ Pete Duncan used to have
one of them there Mow-zers. I reckon he had some.”
“Where could I find him?” asked Hashknife.
“Well--” the long-nosed one grinned slightly--“that’s kinda hard t’
tell, stranger. Ol’ Pete went t’ New Mexico ’bout three year ago,
and died of tick-del-aroo; so it’s kinda hard for t’ give yuh his
address.”
Hashknife thanked him gravely and they went back to the Cheyenne.
“What kind of a ---- disease did old Pete Duncan die of?” asked Sleepy.
“Tic douloureux,” laughed Hashknife.
“Didn’t yuh ever hear that name before? It’s neuralgia of the face, I
think. Prob’ly he died of a sore head. A lot of the old timers used
that name for mostly every disease. It sounds like a lot, don’t it?”
“It sure does.”
A few minutes later they ran into Buck Hardy, and he drew them aside to
impart the information that the sheriff had released Cliff Parker.
“I reckon Jud knows what he’s doin’,” said Buck. “Yuh see, he never did
arrest Cliff.”
“Where’s Cliff now?” queried Hashknife.
“Gone home, I reckon. Jud was afraid somebody might take exception to
seein’ Cliff runnin’ loose; so Jud went with him to get his horse. By
golly, I came ---- near gittin’ Cliff lynched, didn’t I? That’s what
liquor does to a feller. I’m all through with that stuff, y’betcha.”
“The preacher kinda saved yuh,” laughed Hashknife.
“Dang right he did. He sure helped everybody, and I’ll betcha he has a
crowd to his church tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. The place is all fixed up fine now. He sure worked hard to get it
fixed. The ghost of the old Chuck Luck Saloon will sure turn over in its
grave tomorrow.”
Farley came in and joined them.
“Buck told yuh, didn’t he?” he asked.
“Yeah,” smiled Hashknife. “Some of ’em will likely yelp about it, but it
was about all yuh could do. Did he go home?”
“Well, he started home. Let’s have a drink.”
They went over to the bar and made known their wants.
“Give me whisky,” said Buck seriously. “When yo’re quittin’ liquor,
whisky is the best stuff to taper off on.”
Slim Cole joined them and Hashknife asked him about the Countess.
“Can’t find her,” said Slim shaking his head. “I tell yuh, I’m worried
about that girl. Somethin’ must ’a’ happened to her.”
“What could happen to her?” asked the sheriff. “Things don’t usually
happen to a dance-hall girl.”
Slim’s lips formed an angry reply, but he turned away and walked across
into the gambling room.
“Mebbe he was stuck on her, too,” whispered Buck.
“Funnier things than that have happened,” said Hashknife dryly, and
Sleepy grinned knowingly.
They drifted away from the bar and watched the play in the gambling
room, which was growing heavier all the time. Cowboys swore feelingly,
as their month’s wages were swept away in a few turns of the wheel or
the turn of a card. Some of them were fortunate enough to keep ahead of
the game, but few were able to stand prosperity and strewed their money
recklessly; talking at the top of their voices to no one in particular,
and laughing at their own witty remarks.
“Well, shall we go home?” asked Hashknife.
“Might as well,” Sleepy yawned widely. “I could use a little sleep.”
Just outside the door they found the sheriff and another man, talking
earnestly. The sheriff turned to Hashknife.
“This is Jack Woods, the depot agent, Hartley. He says that the
passenger train left Silverbend an hour and a half ago and ain’t showed
up yet. It don’t take over forty minutes for the run.”
“And the wires are dead,” added Woods. “Went dead just after the train
left Silverbend.”
“Ain’t much yuh can do, except to wait, is there?” asked Hashknife.
“Not much,” agreed the sheriff. “Let’s walk up to the depot.”
They were nearly to the depot when they heard the far-away whistle of an
engine.
“There she comes!” exclaimed Woods, increasing his pace. “We’ll soon
know what caused the delay.”
* * * * *
The headlight of the engine was in sight when they reached the platform.
The train clanked in slowly and stopped with a decided jerk. Several men
were standing in the open door of the express car, holding lanterns, and
the conductor came hurrying from the rear of the train.
“Anything wrong?” asked Woods. The conductor lifted his lantern
nervously.
“Oh, is that you, Woods? We were held up at Meteor Creek. Engineer shot.
Got to get a doctor for him right away.”
“This is the sheriff,” said Woods quickly. “We were afraid something had
happened. The line is cut between here and Silverbend.”
“I’ll go after the doctor,” offered Sleepy, who went running down the
street, while Hashknife and Farley climbed into the express car where
the engineer was stretched out on a cot groaning with a broken right
arm.
The through safe was lying on its side, door wide open, and there was a
strong odor of dynamite in the car. Passengers were unloading from the
train and walking about the platform.
“Tell me about it,” said the sheriff.
“It was a one-man job,” said the conductor, placing his lantern on the
wrecked safe. “He flagged us down with a red lantern on the far side of
the Meteor Creek bridge, and he was into the cab before the engine crew
realized what it was all about.
“He took them back and uncoupled the express car. I had swung down to
see what was the trouble, and he drove me back with a couple of shots.
Then he made the crew pull the express car over the bridge and up the
line two miles. Oh, he knew his business.
“He threatened to dynamite the door of the express car; so the messenger
let him in, and he made them all look on while he loaded the safe with
dynamite. The engineer made an attempt to stop him and got a bullet in
his arm. It took nerve, I’ll tell you.”
“How much money did he get?” asked the sheriff.
“That’s hard to tell.”
“Enough,” said the messenger shortly.
“This side of Meteor bridge, eh?” grunted the sheriff. “He probably had
his horse planted there.”
“Yore horse,” corrected Hashknife.
“Yeah, my horse, I reckon. And there ain’t a bronc in this doggone range
that could catch him. There ain’t a bit of use goin’ out there. He knew
where he was goin’ when he left that train--and we don’t.”
“Better wait until mornin’,” agreed Hashknife.
Sleepy arrived with the doctor, who had the injured man removed to the
waiting-room of the depot.